


A Cold Sweat Hot-Headed Believer

by rideswraptors



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: And they already know somehow, Cousin Incest, F/M, I never explain how, R plus L equals J, SMUFFY
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-18
Updated: 2016-08-18
Packaged: 2018-08-09 14:40:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7805851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rideswraptors/pseuds/rideswraptors
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I prefer red hair,” he blurted out nonsensically. The pause drew itself out as Sansa’s face grew increasingly bewildered. Daenerys, however, seemed to be thoroughly amused, her eyebrows high up and her cheeks dimpling adorably. Jon scrambled to get a hold of himself. “Always have.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Cold Sweat Hot-Headed Believer

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Stay" by Rihanna  
> Cleaning out my folders and I found this one...  
> Super unpolished, but here ya go.

“Daenerys is beautiful.”

Jon lifted his head from his ledger at that. He cut a glance over to Sansa who sat before her dressing table, brushing out her long fiery hair. Since their return to Winterfell after the war with the Others, they had shared his solar, spending more time with one another than strictly necessary. Jon, of course, thought they were being discreet, retiring separately, going to their own beds each night. Their conduct was beyond reproach. But Sansa assured him that the servants knew how close they were and that they were talking. Perhaps not to anyone of consequence, but certainly to anyone who might listen. Jon thought they could all go bugger themselves. Rickon was dead. Arya was still missing, though there were plenty of rumors. And Bran was laid up in his chambers, unconscious and guarded by Ghost and Meera Reed day and night. Sansa was his home, his center, his solid ground. He wasn’t about to relinquish an inch of their closeness just because he was now cousin instead of brother.

Were it Ygritte or Val or even Arya, Jon would have heard her statement as just that: a fact. They meant just what they said when they said it. Sansa had been too long among Southroners. Sansa had spent too much energy trying to stay alive to mean exactly what she said when she said it. Which is probably why her words felt like a trap. Queen Daenerys and her retinue were lingering in the North in order to rest and prepare for the turn’s long trip they would make back to King’s Landing. It was Winter now, and travel was dangerous. Sansa had insisted that they stay on at least until her dragons were healed and rested.

“That is what they say,” Jon answered blandly, writing down another set of estimates Sam had given him for supplies.

“You disagree?”

Seven hells, where was she going with this? A man would have to be blind and deaf not to find Daenerys Targaryen exquisite. More than one man in their army had talked about bedding her, about what it would be like to love the Mother of Dragons. Jon’s only thought on the subject was that she was more likely to feed a man to Drogon than take him as a lover. By all accounts, men who came too close to her had a rough go of it. Jorah Mormont, as a prime example. Jon Snow did not consider himself a largely intelligent man, but he was certainly not stupid enough to vocalize any of those thoughts.

“Not at all. But surely a woman must be more than her beauty?”

He missed the way her spine stiffened. Missed the way her hand halted halfway in its movement down the length of her tresses. He missed her strange silence because he got distracted by a miscalculation on the previous page. He hardly heard her when she bid him goodnight and firmly shut the door of her solar behind her. Though, when he came to, he realized she might have behaved a bit oddly.

*

She was avoiding him. That was the only explanation for her absence. When he asked, she claimed she was simply busy taking care of their guests and delivering food and supplies to the villages. But she had been doing all of that before, and she had still found the time to share a noon meal with him and spend time in the solar before retiring each night. No, she was avoiding him, possibly angry with him, though he hadn’t the first idea as to why. He was absolutely hating it. Completely. He liked how much time they spent together. He’d come to depend upon her company and her counsel. So this iciness from her frustrating beyond comparison. He tried to seek her out, tried to speak with her, but she always found some excuse to leave or stop him short. Her behavior wasn’t so different from how she’d treated him as a child. Since he didn’t want rumors spreading or word getting back to Sansa, he went to seek Sam’s advice on what was going on with the Lady of Winterfell.

Sam proved to be enormously unhelpful at first, not wanting to get in the middle of some random domestic. When prompted, Jon recounted their strange conversation the sennight prior, and the maester’s expression morphed into something increasingly disappointed and exasperated. He clapped Jon on the shoulder.

“Jon,” he said with a rueful shake of his head, “when a lady asks if another woman is pretty, you just say no.”

“What?”

“Trust me, you say no and immediately tell that lady she is much prettier.”

“Oh.” He paused, trying remember how Sansa had behaved. “But Sansa _knows_ she is gorgeous, men tell her all of the time. Why do I need to—?”

Sam raised his eyebrows.

“Oh.”

“Yes,” Sam agreed, “ _Oh_.”

“But—”

“Yes.”

“So I should—?”

“ _Immediately_.”

*

For the first time in…ever, Jon burst through Sansa’s solar door without knocking. He came through boisterously and out of breath, to the point that he was confused by her confusion. And her guest’s. She wasn’t alone. Daenerys sat right next to her, huddled over what looked like stitching. Vaguely, he remembered her telling Sansa that she had never learned to embroider. Vaguely, he remembered Sansa graciously offered to teach her. She was practicing, on one of Jon’s shirts no less. The sight was jarring.

“Jon! You scared us! What is the matter with you?” Sansa glared at him in unfettered irritation, looking absolutely incensed and so totally beautiful that Jon lost grip of every word he’d planned on saying.

“I prefer red hair,” he blurted out nonsensically. The pause drew itself out as Sansa’s face grew increasingly bewildered. Daenerys, however, seemed to be thoroughly amused, her eyebrows high up and her cheeks dimpling adorably. Jon scrambled to get ahold of himself. “Always have.”

Daenerys put a hand up to cover her smile (and prevent herself from snorting) and then let out a long breath before looking pointedly at Sansa.

“I think my presence is quite unnecessary for this conversation,” she told her facetiously, placing the mending in the basket at her feet. She delicately lifted her skirts and stood to leave, despite Sansa’s protesting. She promised to see them at supper and patted Jon’s shoulder as she left, muttering _good luck_ under her breath.

But Jon couldn’t tear his gaze away from Sansa. She still looked furious, probably more so now that he’d embarrassed her. Honestly, he hadn’t the first idea as to what was wrong with him. Just that when it came to the Lady of Winterfell, all bets were off. Breathing out an angry exhalation through her nose, Sansa tossed her mending aside and got to her feet.

“That was completely _rude_ , Jon Snow! I cannot believe you just did that!” she snapped and turned in a flurry, making her way toward her wardrobe. He moved to go after her, trying to grasp for an explanation, but she shouted, “Don’t you dare follow me!” over her shoulder as she jerked the door open. She disappeared into the room for a long moment, so long that he wasn’t sure she would come back out. With a growl of impatience, he followed her anyway.

“Sansa—”

“Don’t you _Sansa_ me!” she shot back, whirling on him with her fur cloak on her shoulders. “Gods, what must the queen think? You behaving like some demented Wilding, bursting into a lady’s chambers uninvited and spouting nonsense!” He ignored this completely.

“Where are you going?” he demanded, staring at her cloak. She nearly screamed her annoyance.

“Anywhere you are not!” she shrieked and shoved past him. With a beleaguered scowl, he spun on his heel and took a few quick steps to catch up with her. He grabbed for her hand, but she swatted him away.

“Stop it! And stop following me!”

“Sansa, please just wait,” he begged. He managed to snag her wrist so he could pull her back to him.

“For what?” she snapped even as he jerked her closer, “For you to lose your mind some more?” She glowered at him even though he knew she was absolutely terrified of men handling her roughly and carelessly, of being treated like a worn out rag doll. Even though her eyes widened to just this side of panic. Even though he had never been anything but gentle and careful and overly cautious with her. Gods, if it were possible, her icy glare would have set him ablaze.

“Others take me,” he mumbled, “Probably.” Jon released her wrist, brought his hands to cup her face, and kissed her soundly. He was so overwhelmed and overstimulated that he didn’t register her immediate, enthusiastic response. They just _worked_. It felt good and natural and so fucking right, like nothing else had since the Red Woman had brought him back from the dead. When her hands clenched on his shoulders to pull her forward, to press into him, Jon groaned and dropped a hand to her waist to bring her more tightly against him. He was all desperate insistence, bending her back slightly with an arm clamped at the small of her back to hold her weight. Sansa met his force with her own, accepting his intensity while slowing him, gentling him. 

Eventually he had to come up for air. Instead of giving her a moment to think, or worse to escape, he crowded her up against the nearest wall, kissing lines down her jaw and neck. She whimpered when he reached her ear, when he laved attention on the sensitive skin there. And he pushed forward when her leg lifted along his.

“ _Jon_ ,” she whined, arching into him. Jon lifted his head to kiss her lips again. When she opened for him without prompting, he tongued her relentlessly, drank down her sighs and her gasps like a man starving in Winter. Because he _was_ starving. Starving for her, starving for this, starving for the burning in his gut that he hadn’t dared put a name to.

“I don’t give a damn about Daenerys,” he growled into her mouth. He caught her lips again roughly, tugging and sucking, “Just you, only you.”

“Don’t say things like that,” she argued breathlessly, her words muffled by his nips and pecks, “You _can’t_ —”

“I _can_. I don’t give a damn about anyone else. They can burn for all I care.”

“Jon, _no_ ,” she accepted and returned his kisses eagerly, not at all deterred, “Don’t—you sound like—”

 _Lannister_. _Baelish. Bolton_.

She didn’t finish her thought, far too busy drowning herself in the onslaught of his amorous attentions. But he understood her all the same. Men obsessed. That’s what she feared the most. Obsessed with her, with power, with themselves, it didn’t matter. Despite that fear, Sansa clung to him. She stared at him with her perfect blue eyes like he was everything she ever wanted, like he was the hero in one of her songs. Jon brought his hands to her face again, thumbs stroking the edges of her cheeks, and she clasped his wrists in her grip, holding him there.

“Nothing’s ever touching you again, do you understand me?” he demanded roughly, “No one is ever going to hurt you again.”

“You can’t promise that,” she whispered miserably. Jon kissed her again. Softer this time, lighter and soothing. Then he pressed his forehead to hers, sighing as she relaxed into him.

“I can damn well try,” he grumbled back.

*

They supped with their guests in the Hall again that night. Jon would have preferred to take his meal with Sansa in private, but she insisted that would be rude and inhospitable. He relented only because his aunt would likely tease him forever after his earlier display. However, he all out refused to go down separately or to have her seated further away to avoid arousing suspicion. For one, _absolutely not_. For another, everyone was bound to notice such an obvious break in habit anyway. Sansa always sat to his left at the head table.

They were among the first to arrive because Sansa always insisted on arriving early in order to greet guests. She made idle small talk with those who sat nearby and warmly greeted the others when they passed by the table to speak to her. Jon strove to pay attention to his guests, to focus on the conversation around him, but between Sansa’s proximity and Daenerys’ knowing smirks, he couldn’t seem to catch a break.

But he came back to center the instant Petyr Baelish entered the Hall. Now, Jon didn’t care how supportive he had been. He didn’t care how many men he had, how often he swore allegiance to the Starks. He didn’t care that Sansa said she had him well in hand, that he could be useful. Because all Jon Snow saw when he looked at Petyr Baelish was a snide rat who’d implicated Sansa in a king’s murder and then sold her to monsters. The man could throw himself on a sword or a pyre to save a thousand orphans and Jon would still despise him to the core. Baelish was a threat to the person he loved most in the world, and he violently wished he was once again King in the North so that he might take his head without question. A bended knee to the Iron Throne was the price for three dragons in the war against the Others, however, and he’d given his title up without hesitation. That didn’t mean he had to like everything about the results.

Baelish actually had the nerve to smirk at him from across the Hall. Jon ensured that he was seated a fair distance away from Sansa, always. He didn’t want the snake anywhere near her when she was already under so much pressure. Baelish was late, too, among the last to arrive. So Jon tilted his head dismissively and then turned his full attention to Daenerys. She was entertaining those around her with stories about her Dothraki companions, about her earliest days with the Khalasar. She was a good storyteller and wildly amusing, but Jon’s thoughts kept drifting back to Baelish. Back to Sansa.

It irked him that they were so close and this was so new, but that he couldn’t touch her. That hungry male gazes swept over her uninhibited because they thought there was no one there to claim her. He’d heard plenty of whispers. He knew the lords were hesitant to wed her to their sons; they thought her frigid or broken, used up by Lannisters and Boltons. Jon wanted to break their faces as badly he’d broken Ramsay’s. As if Sansa were anything but good and pure and perfect—

Her thin, white hand landed on his clenched fist where it rested on the table. She was listening intently to whatever Jorah Mormont was saying next to her. Her skin was much cooler than it ought to have been. She never complained, of course, but he often wondered if the warmer climes of the south had suited her better. He sighed heavily, willing himself to relax and focus, but it didn’t seem to work very well. He felt her squeeze his fist, a nagging pressure, until he relented and unclenched. All she did was slide her thumb into his palm and clasp their hands together. Jon curled his fingers tightly around her thumb as she rubbed delicate, soothing circles along the back of his hand.

The touch grounded him. It wasn’t quite enough to banish his irritation, but it did dull the edges somewhat. Feeling the hair on his neck stand up, Jon cast his gaze wide over the Hall to see that Baelish was staring at them. Not trying to hide his interest either. From the corner  of his eye, he could see that Sansa had followed his gaze, felt her stiffen when her eyes alighted on Baelish. He didn’t _like it_. Jon made sure they made eye contact, he made sure to keep the man’s interest. Then he leaned over to Sansa, sure to angle his face back.

“If we were alone right now,” he whispered in her ear, “I would rip that gown off you.” He kept his head turned and watched her reaction intently. She inhaled shakily, blushed prettily, and bit her bottom lip. She turned her head to him, letting out a long breath.

“ _Behave_ ,” she hissed back. But her eyes were lit like Wildfire. She wasn’t unaffected. She wasn’t frightened of him either.

“Smile for me and I will,” he rumbled, not taking his eyes off hers. Her tongue darted out to wet her lips, but he didn’t break. Jon pulled away, straightened in his seat, but he lifted her hand to press a lingering kiss to her soft skin, refusing to look elsewhere even as she flicked her gaze meaningfully. He kept her hand to his mouth and shook his head. She flushed again, but smiled this time, a real smile that overwhelmed the shadows on her face. Close mouthed and fighting it, but so obviously pleased that his heart soared. Sansa rolled her eyes at him, and turned back to her conversation with Jorah, but she didn’t pull her hand away.

Settled, Jon turned back to Daenerys to listen, but kept Sansa’s hand firmly in his. And when his gaze flicked over to Baelish halfway through the meal, it was Jon’s turn to smirk. The man was practically vibrating in rage, his face white and eyes blazing. Good. Let him seethe. Let him know he’d lost. Sansa was free of him, and Jon intended to keep it that way.

After the bulk of their guests retired, Sansa began to excuse herself, bidding everyone good night. Jon didn't bother pretending he would not be escorting her. He finished his wine and stood to wait for her. When she turned to find him there, she looked surprised and then wary, but Jon only smiled and crooked his arm to her. With a sigh, Sansa took it and slid up against him much more closely than necessary. Brienne, and two guards, Lucan and Derron, followed them at a distance, giving them space because Jon was with their lady. She didn't speak until they had some distance.

"You shouldn't provoke him like that," she told him lowly.

"I have no idea—"

She scoffed, "Yes you do. Littlefinger is not the sort of man you want for an enemy. Not for a friend, either, but certainly not an enemy."

"I don't like the way he looks at you."

"And it only occurred to you tonight?"

"Of course not, but I can do something about it now." She leaned into him, pressing her nose to his shoulder. "I should have been doing something sooner." She hummed.

"We were a little busy. Battling Boltons. Conscripting dragons. Getting a crown, losing a crown. You fighting a war, me harboring refugees."

"It has been a long Winter," he agreed lowly.

"He will do something rash and foolish," Sansa told him. "He doesn't take insults lightly."

"Are we still talking about Baelish?"

" _Yes_ we are because you just had to poke the bear, and now that must be dealt with."

"Then marry me."

She stopped short and he was quick to follow her lead. "What?"

"I want you. I want us. I want this. I want your claim to Winterfell uncontested. I want you safe and shielded. I want you to rule Winterfell without the pressure of a scheming husband trying to take it from you."

"Jon—"

"Just tell me. Do you want this?"

She stared at him for a long moment, wide eyed and chest heaving. Then she spun around and snapped something at Brienne, and the three guards disappeared from view. Without a second's hesitation, Sansa turned back to him and threw her arms around his neck. He met her kiss halfway, catching her around the waist to haul her close. She had control of the kiss, she set a furious pace that had his head spinning. She worked his mouth open and deepened their exchange. Her hands sunk into his thick curls as she angled his head where she wanted it, licking into him with a fervor he didn’t know she had. She kissed him breathless, to the point that he was panting.

She broke their kiss suddenly, leaving him bereft and searching. She held his face in her hands, her eyes intent on him, pupils blown wide.

"Does that answer your question?"

“Almost.” He moved to kiss her again, slower and deeper, his hips snapping forward when she whimpered. “Why did you get angry?” he demanded against her lips, teeth nipping. “Why did you stay away?” Sansa pulled back, her eyes wide and welling with tears. She had her fingers threaded in his hair, her nails dragged against his skull.

“They keep saying you’re going to leave.”

“What? Who?”

“ _Everyone_.” Her hands tightened in his hair, “Everyone says that. They all believe you’ll marry Daenerys and return to King’s Landing with her.  And I just—I—” He cut her off by crushing his mouth to hers, wrapping his arms around her back. It was too much and too intimate for a corridor when they had so many guests. But truthfully, Jon just couldn’t take it anymore. He swept her up into his arms, forcing a squeak from her.

“Where are we going?” she asked breathlessly, lips bruised and cheeks flushed.

“My chambers,” he roughly snagged her lips again. “To show you just how much I am not going to King’s Landing.”

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr: rideswraptors


End file.
